Lack of reverence lead me to believe that I was somehow a figurehead of the revolution I had invented in my bedroom beneath a canvass of film posters and bad taste slogans written across the walls. Scrawled in red and black pen across once nice, decorative wallpaper. But whilst I felt I lacked something unimportant in a reverence that could surely only hold me back, I felt bogged down by an unerring sense of pretension that seemed to dissipate from everything I held dear at the time or in times before that. Where was the originality anymore?

There was none, I decided, and went on about my business.